The Strangers
by Stars In Tokyo
Summary: "Come now, wolf," Joffrey Baratheon hissed, "Time to be given away to your new husband." [The strange relationship of Sansa Stark & Tyrion Lannister]
1. SANSA : The Wedding

"Come now, wolf," Joffrey Baratheon hissed, "Time to be given away to your new husband."

The king snatched Sansa Starks arm, and gripped it like a vice. The girl winced, but only for a moment. She returned to the mask of the emotionless blank slate she became accustomed to, hiding her and pain. Sansa resolved not to weep, even through all of the torture she had suffered through at the hands of House Lannister.

She wanted to run, push her way through the crowd, escaping the sept. She envisioned herself running, until King's Landing appeared as a dot on the horizon. Winterfell would lay before her in no time, her mother, father, brothers, and even Arya would be at the gates to welcome her home. Her direwolf would bound into her open arms, and Sansa would bury her face in Lady's thick coat, breathing in the scent of the godswood, of home.

"Hurry now," Joffrey leaned in, and whispered gleefully, "We don't want to keep the man of your dreams waiting."

He yanked her arm, dragging her toward the altar. The girl stumbled, but found her footing, walking with the dignity and grace that would have made her septa so proud. All eyes turned toward her and their monster of a king, smirking like a pompous fool. It was a long walk.

_I wish they would just kill me, then I could be with father again, _she thought. Sansa swallowed back the lump forming in her throat, and kept her gaze steady, as she was lead toward the man whom she would soon be calling her lord husband.

Tyrion Lannister, stood beside the septon, dressed in the finest clothing Lannister gold could buy. None of this finery improved his appearance however; no matter how he adorned himself, Tyrion would always remain a brutish, stunted dwarf. The Battle of the Blackwater had only added to his unfortunate looks: a multitude of scars and a missing chunk of his nose.

He did not hide his displeasure over their arranged marriage. Before the ceremony began, on the steps of the sept, Tyrion explained himself to Sansa: how he had taken no part in their match, if she preferred marrying his cousin, Lancel, instead. Sansa knew it would make no difference which Lannister she wed, and insisted their union take place. Tyrion gave a solemn nod in reply, and headed inside, as Joffrey and his guards surrounded her.

Sansa had nowhere to turn; with her father executed, and her brother deemed a traitor to the crown, she had become a mere pawn, a prisoner of war. But she still held fast to that small flicker of hope, the vision of escaping into the past and having everything the way it used to be; a part of her could not let go of that fantasy. _Run, run, run, run, run…_

She stood before the grotesque half man, and the vows she had been perfecting since she was a little girl spilled forth. _These words were never meant for a dwarf, they were meant for a proper man. My knight in shining armor…_

The septon recited the blessings and the time came to remove the maiden's cloak. Joffrey stripped the cloak off of Sansa's back with flourish, and stepped aside. _He would erase the Stark name from history, if he could_, she thought, feeling more vulnerable without the direwolf sigil of her house. Tyrion held the replacement cloak of Lannister colors to drape over the shoulders of his new bride. She turned her back to him and waited. She now faced Joffrey, a devious grin creeping onto his face. Her heart hammered in her chest. _Run, run, run, run, run…_

She felt a tug at her skirts, but did not move. A few moments passed and then a sharper tug. Again, she refused to kneel. Stifled laughs could be heard, as Tyrion tugged for a third time.

"Uncle, it would seem as though you are having some difficulty cloaking the bride," Joffrey stated, as laughter now rippled through the onlookers.

"It would seem that way, your grace," Tyrion replied through gritted teeth, color rising up his face.

Sansa dropped to her knees, kneeling not for Tyrion, but to prevent Joffrey from receiving any satisfaction from a situation he had set up from the start. The king's expression morphed into a sneer, but he said nothing. Sansa, now cloaked in crimson and gold, stood and left the sept a Lannister.

* * *

Sansa Lannister sat rigid in her seat, showing no emotion. The feast had been carrying on for a few hours, with flowing wine, exuberant dancing, and raucous laughter filling the hall. The guests enjoyed themselves at the bride and groom's expense. Tyrion sat beside her, speaking only when requesting a refill of wine from a passing servant girl. He requested a whole carafe to himself, and the girl obliged. When not guzzling wine, he sat in silence, dour expression matched only by his father. Tywin Lannister would take the occasional glance over at Sansa, but did not speak a word.

Joffrey leered at her from the opposite end of the table, making obscene gestures, but nobody seemed to take notice. Cersei Lannister spoke a few words, grasped her his hands and placed them down on the table. Mother and son stared at Sansa, smirk plastered across both of their faces.

Sansa knew it would soon be time for the bedding and another way for the Lannisters to assert their authority. The thought of being stripped by these drunken men, and carried off to her marital bed, was almost too much for her to bear. Her heart started pounding again and that all too familiar lump in her throat had returned.

"It is time for the moment you've all been waiting for!" Joffrey announced, as he rose from the table, "It's time for the bedding!"

Hollering and whistling erupted, and Sansa froze, lungs seizing in her chest. _Run, run, run, run, run…_

"There will be no bedding…"

"Come now, gentlemen! I am sure she cannot _wait_ to that dress off!"

"There will be no bedding."

"Ladies, I apologize for my uncle's monstrous appearance-"

"THERE WILL BE NO FUCKING BEDDING!"

The dagger slammed down in a flash, point buried into the oak table, and quivered where it struck. The hall fell silent.

Before Joffrey could sputter out a response, Tyrion jumped down from his seat and grabbed Sansa's forearm.

"Come, wife," he shouted, slightly slurring his words, "Time for me to smash your portcullis."

As he dragged his wife away to their martial bed, no one dared to follow.


	2. TYRION : What Do I Keep?

In their bedchamber, Tyrion poured two glasses of wine, passing one to Sansa. She grasped the cup with both hands and stared at viscid liquid. He watched her and it dawned on him.

"Sansa, how old are you?"

"Three-and-ten, my lord."

Tyrion choked on his wine, but managed to swallow. A cold silence enveloped the room.

"Drink, your lord husband commands it."

Sansa, ever obedient, downed the wine. She hiccuped as her face began to flush.

"Why did you do that, Sansa?" he asked, taking another swig.

"My lord, I don't understand?"

"Tyrion."

"My lord? I-"

"My name. My name is Tyrion, Sansa."

"Yes, my l-Tyrion."

Silence.

"You have been trained quite well, Sansa. I am impressed."

"Tyrion, my lord, I don't understand."

"You did not run," he continued, ticking off each action on his thick fingers, "You did not fight. You allowed my sweet sister, and ever honorable nephew, drag you to the sept, and force you into a marriage with..." his voice trailed off, but he didn't hide his contempt, "You handled everything well, considering the circumstances, but that whole affair was the easy part. Standing at the altar, reciting vows, that's easy," he explained, mismatched eyes focused on her, "This will be the difficult part."

More silence. The girl stared at her hands with no reply.

"Sansa."

Tyrion knew he looked a grotesque, with his missing nose, facial scars, and stunted, twisted body. He took her hand in his.

"Sansa, I know I am in no position to ask anything of you," he explained, as he stroked her hand, "My family has imprisoned you, and destroyed everything you love and hold dear, and now they have wed you to me. The Lannister's key to the North," he looked away, ashamed. He swallowed and continued, "Sansa, my sweet girl-"

"I'm a woman grown. I have flowered."

"Be that as it may-"

"I can take it, you know," she turned away, "Just get it over with…should I undress myself or…?"

Tyrion stared at this girl, a mere child dressed in a grown woman's clothes. _A girl her age should be worrying about her next lesson with her septa, riding horses and playing games with her friends, not this… _She looked at him, not knowing what to do. Her husband cleared his throat.

"Lay down," he directed her to their marital bed, she obeyed. Tyrion climbed up beside her, "Spread your legs."

Sansa opened her legs. As Tyrion gazed on this girl in a wedding dress, laying stiff on their bed, he likened her to a doll. _Unseeing, unmoving, unfeeling… _ the uneasy silence returned.

Tyrion unlaced his breeches, and lifted up her skirts. He felt her flinch as he yanked off her small clothes, exposing a small thicket off dark, auburn curls.

"What are you waiting for…my lord?" she choked back a sob, as her eyes welled.

"I will not do this. My father commanded me to consummate this marriage, but I will not do it."

Sansa sat up, and covered herself.

The dwarf laced his breeches back up and jumped down from what should have been their marital bed. He grabbed his cup of wine, filling it up one last time, and knocking it back. Tyron staggered toward the chaise in the corner.

"Goodnight, Sansa."

"Goodnight, my lord."

The next morning, handmaids stripped the bedding, as they did every day. Tyrion watched as they pulled back the linens, looked at each other. Word would spread like wildfire: not a drop of blood could be seen. As the girls passed him, they did not make eye contact. _Let them talk_, he thought bitterly, _we can't always hide the truth_.

Sansa was already in the solar, waiting for him. Their breakfast had been laid out on the table: fruit, bread, and blood sausages. His bride sat straight, hands in her lap, and had touched nothing. She waited for her lord husband, like a proper lady. Tyrion caught himself grinning; here was his wife, perfect, prim and proper, waiting for him, the hideous, whore mongering half man. He found the irony amusing, stifled a snort of laughter.

"My lord, is something the matter?" Sansa asked.

"No, nothing," he replied, "My name is Tyrion, remember?"

"Yes, I am sorry."

"I just want you to feel...comfortable."

Only afterward did he realize how ridiculous he sounded. The girl stared at her hands, and did not reply. When he could no longer bear the stillness of silence between himself and his wife, he took his seat across from her, and filled his plate with bread and sausage. As he went to pour wine from the carafe, Sansa cleared her throat.

"Isn't it a bit early, my lord?"

"For the wine, you mean?"

"Yes."

"Maybe it's too late. The sun has already risen, has it not?"

Sansa did not smile.

"But as we all know," Tyrion stated, "It is never too early, or too late, for wine," he poured a second goblet and handed it to her. An awkward moment of inertia passed, but she took it. He knew she wouldn't refuse it; Sansa was too obedient to reject her husband outright, no matter how much she despised their coupling. She took a sip and placed it back down.

"Please, eat, unless my face disturbs you so." She glanced at him, took the heel from the loaf of bread and began to nibble at it. "Sansa, there will be rumors about you and I."

"I understand, my lord."

"Questions will be asked," he continued, "About what may or may not have transpired-"

"My septa explained everything to me," she replied.

"She explained _everything_?" he asked, cocking a scarred brow.

"Yes," Sansa's gaze became distant as words spilled forth, "She also said every man is beautiful in his own way, and how I should find that beauty in my lord husband some day."

The awkward silence that continued to plague them returned. _And what beauty have you found in me, my sweet? _Tyrion jumped down from his chair, and coughed.

"I will take my leave, my lady," he said, getting tangled in trite courtesies, much like his child bride. _If courtesy is a lady's armor, what is a dwarf's armor? _he thought bitterly, as he left Sansa alone with her thoughts.


	3. SANSA : Lone Wolf

A number of weeks passed since the wedding and every day progressed the same: Sansa would wake alone in their bed. Her handmaiden, Shae, would assist with her washing and dressing. Tyrion had dismissed the previous girl, a small mousy thing, and within hours replaced her with Shae. Sansa found her new attendant a bit odd, but chalked it up to her being unfamiliar with the culture of Westeros. She stood out amongst the low-born servant girls, most of whom received not a passing glance. The foreign girl, with her coy smile and brash attitude, garnered the attention of many men in King's Landing, including Tyrion Lannister. Sansa, young and naive, did not take notice, much to Shae's delight.

_She isn't from here_… Sansa would remind herself as Shae roughly brushed out her tangles, _She doesn't know how to properly behave_. However, the girl would not dare utter a single complaint about her handmaiden, for fear of retaliation from the Lannisters. And in a strange way, she appreciated Shae exactly as she was: strong-willed and independent; all of the things Sansa was not.

A hot bath had been drawn today, steam rising off the surface of the water. The slight chill in the air signaled that summer was nearing an end. _Winter is coming…_

"Well?" Shae asked, motioning toward the tub. When Sansa did not respond, the handmaiden rolled her eyes and sighed, "Let me help you."

She snatched the fabric of Sansa's sleeping gown and pulled it off in one sweeping motion. Unnerved and exposed, the girl shivered; no matter how many times Shae undressed her, she would never feel comfortable.

"If you wait any longer, the water will be cold," Shae nagged, grabbing her hand. Sansa dipped her toes in and winced.

"It's too hot."

"It is not."

"It's _too hot_."

"_Get in!_"

"I do not know where you are from, but that is no way to speak to a lady!" Sansa snapped, losing her patience.

"Well," her handmaiden spat, words dripping with venom, "Good thing I'm only speaking to a _child."_

Sansa shrieked. She flailed for a few moments, water flowing into her lungs. She clasped the side of the tub, leaning over the edge, sputtering and coughing.

"What is going on here?"

Sansa took care not to expose herself and peered over the edge of the tub. Tyrion stood at the threshold of the room, glaring at Shae.

"Not a thing, m'lord," Shae replied, accompanied by a sloppy curtsy.

"Sansa?" he questioned.

"Nothing, my lord."

"How many more weeks will go by until you call me by my name?"

"I'm sorry…Tyrion."

"You don't need to apologize."

She stared at him, this ugly little man, her husband Over time, she tolerated his appearance, but still shuddered at the thought of sharing a bed with him. Even though she knew that day would come…

"When you are finished here," Tyrion said, turning his attention to Shae, "I need to speak with you."

"With _me?_" the handmaiden replied, indignant.

"Yes, _with you. _Keep this up and you _will_ be reassigned."

"And who will replace me, hm?" a sneer crept across her face, "Someone more obedient? Maybe some younger girl who can-"

"_Enough!_" Tyrion held his hand out to silence her as blood rushed to his face, "We will discuss this _later_."

"As you wish, m'lord," Shae replied, never taking her eyes off of him. An oppressive silence filled the room. Tyron cleared his throat.

"I must attend to my duties now, Sansa," he stated, turning to his wife.

"Yes, my lord," she replied, meek as a lamb; Tyrion inhaled and closed his eyes, face gripped by tension. He seemed as if he were about to speak, but with an exhale, he let it go. He bowed his head, and walked out, taking a final glance at Shae before shutting the door behind him.

Sansa sat in the now lukewarm water, mind wandering, she hardly noticed that Shae had sat herself on a nearby stool and began washing her hair in silence. The girl was too consumed by thoughts of Winterfell. Memories of her strong-willed sister, Arya, floated to the surface of her mind.

* * *

"But I want to play monsters-and-maidens!" Arya whined.

"We should play come-into-my-castle," Sansa replied.

The group of children in the yard were divided: four boys and five girls. By a vote, the girls should have gotten their way. But Arya had to intervene.

"We don't want to play that stupid game!" Arya shouted, boys nodding in agreement.

"Fine then," Sansa crossed her arms over her chest, turning away from her sister and the boys, "Then we won't play at all!"

"You ruin everything, Sansa!"

"Don't you talk to her like that!" Jeyne, Sansa's best friend, piped up.

"Oh, yeah? Hey guys, I think I see some maidens to catch!"

The boys charged, and the girls scattered, shrieking. Arya tackled her older sister to the ground, leaving her choking for air. Still sitting on her chest, hands pressing her shoulders into the dirt, Arya leaned in close to her face.

"Look at miss prim-and-proper now, covered in dirt!"

In a blind fit of rage, Sansa spat right in her sister's face. For a moment, she did not register what happened and the older girl smirked. It was short lived, however, as the younger girl began punching her face. But Sansa was ready to fight back. The girls tussled in the dirt, limbs flailing, all the while spewing hateful words at one another.

"You're the ugly one, you know that!?"

"Being pretty and proper isn't everything!"

Arya grabbed a fistful of Sansa's hair.

"Let go!"

"No!"

Sansa snatched Arya's arm with one hand, and slapped her repeatedly with the other.

"I HATE YOU!"

"I HATE _YOU_!"

They ended up on the ground, screaming. Sansa felt strong hands on her arm, and she suddenly found herself on her feet. Her brother, Robb, appeared beside her. Theon Greyjoy stood beside Arya, attempting to pull her off of the ground, but she continued to swing her arms wildly, not caring who she struck.

"What is going on here?" Robb asked, as the dust settled. One of the boys had run for help, while the other children stood by, slack jawed, and watched the girls brawl.

"She started it!" Sansa pointed a finger at her little sister.

"LIAR!" Arya shrieked, lunging at her.

"Looks like you have a feisty one here, Robb!" Theon exclaimed, as he wrapped his arms around the girl, holding her back. Arya still had some fight in her and she sunk her teeth into his forearm.

"Fucking bitch bit me!" Theon shoved Arya away, rolling up his sleeve, looking for bite marks.

"That'll teach you-"

"_Enough!_" Robb's voice silenced everyone. Both girls stood, faces red, huffing with rage, "Father will be hearing about this."

Arya groaned. Sansa heaved a sigh.

"You both know the consequences. You both need to change out of those clothes," Robb remarked.

Arya stormed off, with clothes caked in sweat and dirt, away from the main castle. Sansa stood, dress filthy and torn, hair a mess, and blood smeared on her face. Her friends quietly left when her brother intervened. She stood in the yard feeling dazed and utterly foolish.

"Theon, I'll meet up with you later," Robb said as he gently grasped his sister's hand.

"Suit yourself!" Theon called, smirk plastered on his face, as he walked away.

Robb lead Sansa back toward the main castle, as she tried to forget all of vile things she said to her sister.

* * *

"Are you ready to come out, m'lady?" Shae asked, voice flat and unfeeling.

"Yes."

Sansa rose, cold water dripping from her hair. A sense of grief overcame her, and she could no longer cry; all of those tears had been shed when she watched her father's head roll across the stone steps of Balor's Sept, when she heard stories of her little brothers' corpses hanging high over the walls of Winterfell, when she learned of her mother and Robb's massacre at what would be forever known as the Red Wedding. She had even spent nights weeping for her polar opposite, Arya. But in that moment, as she watched water droplets fall from her Tully hair, making ripples in the bathwater below, the despair began to morph into a different beast.

_I am the only Stark left, I stand alone._

Without a pack, a lone wolf would not survive for long…unless she took a chance with a lion.


	4. TYRION : Decision

Tyrion sat in his private study with _The Dance of Dragons_ open on his desk. He had read the tome about the civil war during Targaryen rule, many times throughout his childhood and remained intrigued by Aegon II Targaryen's capture of Dragonstone. He searched through the book so many times in his youth, he was able to flip right to the page with an illustration of Rhaenyra Targaryen. She was taken prisoner by Aegon, her opponent to the throne and half-brother, and stood before the magnificent dragon, Sunfyre. The beast had been considered by many the most stunning to ever live, with scales that gleamed like gold.

What the illustration did not depict was moment the dragon's gaping jaws crushed Rhaenyra, devouring flesh and bone alike. Tyron traced the outline of Sunfyre's pale pink wings with his finger, moving along it's curves. By all accounts, Rhaenyra did not weep or plead for her life, but accepted her fate. _Knowing that you will be eaten alive, and unable to do a thing about it, _he contemplated, _and at the hands of her own brother…though Cersei would would have dragons feast upon me, no doubt._

Cersei delighted when their father, Tywin Lannister, proposed an arranged marriage for Tyrion; she found in enjoyment in anything that made her youngest brother miserable. _If she found out about Shae_…

He closed the book, pushed it aside and waited. Within a few moments, there was a soft knock at the door.

"Come in."

"Were you waiting for me, m'lord?"

"Yes, we need to talk, Shae."

"Why all of the talking?" she asked as she sauntered over to him, taking a seat on the edge of the desk, legs splayed out, "You didn't bring me to the capitol to _talk_."

"Shae, I made this arrangement for your own protection."

"I thought it was to keep your whore close."

"It was to keep my whore _safe_. You must behave like a handmaiden and follow the rules if you wish to stay here. If anyone finds out- if my_ father_ finds out-"

"You seem stressed," Shae interjected, pulling her shift over her head, revealing nothing underneath, "Maybe I can help, m'lord?"

"Please, listen to me, if anyone finds out-" she took his hand and put one of his thick fingers between her lips, sucking on it, "Damnit, Shae, it's barely noon-"

"Shhh," she hushed him, drawing his finger over her chin, between her breasts, and down her navel, "I know what you need."

He should have resisted, told her to put her clothes back on and get out. But she was in his lap now, and he ran his free hand along her bare backside, all while licking his lips.

"You seem to have quite an appetite, m'lord," Shae remarked, voice low and sultry, as she began unlacing his breeches with a few flicks of her wrist.

"It's been a while," Tyrion replied roughly.

She pulled out his hard, throbbing cock, and lifted her hips up and slowly lowered herself down; Tyrion moaned as she took him in. Shae rocked her hips back and forth, progressing to deep thrusts and within a few short minutes, it was over. When she rose from his lap, Tyrion watched his seed slide down her inner thigh. He felt himself stir again, but tucked himself away.

"Saving that for your child bride?" Shae asked, pulling her shift back over her head.

"Of course not-"

"Fine, act like you don't love fucking that tiny cunt of hers."

"I don't."

"Oh, _please_," Shae laughed, "Give me one reason why you don't love sticking your cock in her, hm?"

"Because I haven't."

Shae sat up.

"What do you mean?"

"I haven't fucked her."

"Not once?"

"Not once."

"She is your wife."

"Not by choice.

"I bet your father cannot wait for her to get nice and fat with a Lannister child. She has some claim, I hear."

"She does, a rather strong claim in the North."

"Then you will move North with her to stake your claim, and leave your whore behind."

"Shae-"

"You know it's true!" she spat, "You will fuck that girl, and leave me behind! Oh, or even better for you: use me as some kind of chambermaid while you get to fuck me on the side!"

Before Tyrion could respond, Shae had struck him clean across the face. He resisted the urge to strike her back, and instead rubbed the spot, seething.

"I'll say it again, if I must: I am doing this for your own protection," he replied through gritted teeth.

"Sure you are," Shae snapped, "And not for that Lannister claim waiting for you up North. It's funny how your father seems to be calling all of the shots for you."

She turned on her heel and was gone. Tyrion stood up, stuffed his now limp cock back in his breeches, and walked over to the side table. He lifted the carafe of wine and poured it, hands shaking with rage. Lifting the blood red liquid to his lips, he paused, and hurled the cup as hard as he could. The clang of the cracked chalice echoed throughout the room for a few moments and then, silence. He snatched the carafe up and guzzled whatever was left, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Tyrion could only hope that there weren't any little birds hiding in the shadows.

* * *

"M-my lord?"

Tyrion ran his tongue eagerly along Shae's thighs, listening to her pant and moan. He worked his tongue between her legs, hitting her sweet spot. But when he looked up it was no longer Shae he was pleasuring, but Sansa. Her chest and face flushed, auburn hair wild, kept saying, "_My lord, Tyrion….ooh, my lord…"_

_"_M-my lord? Are you alright, my lord?" the dwarf's squire stood beside him, shaking him awake.

"Podrick?" he groaned, lifting his head off his desk, "Is that you? If it is…go away."

"I'm sorry for interrupting, my lord, but your lord father has requested your presence."

"When?"

"Now, my lord, right now. He was adamant-"

"Alright, alright, just…give me a moment," Tyrion hopped down from his chair, where he had fallen asleep.

"Um, my lord?"

"Yes?"

"You have d-drool on your face, m-my lord."

Tyrion sighed and attempted to wipe his face clean.

"I mustn't look a mess for father," he replied bitterly, as he left for the Tower of the Hand.

* * *

"Drinking in the middle of the day, I see," Tywin knew without even looking up from his papers.

"You wished to see me, dearest father?"

"Sit," Tywin commanded, dropping his quill pen, fierce gaze on his son. Tyrion pulled himself onto one of the giant chairs and sat opposite of his father's oaken desk.

"Well?"

"You know why I summoned you."

"I haven't taken a single whore-"

"Your whores, whom you no doubt still have, are not my concern right now; it's with your wife," Tywin continued, "I know you haven't consummated the marriage."

"And how do you know that, for a fact, father?"

"The morning after your wedding, I sent two servant girls to strip the sheets. They reported no maiden's blood. You cannot manipulate the truth here, Tyrion."

"You are right," Tyrion replied after a few moments of silence, "I did not take her maidenhead."

"You will do your duty for this family. With her claim of Winterfell-"

"Do you know how old she is?"

"I don't care."

"_Three-and-ten!_" Tyrion interjected, "You want me to deflower a girl of _three-and-ten!_"

"Your wife, you mean," his father corrected, "Come seven Hells or high-water, you _will_ put a Lannister inside of that girl."

"And if I refuse?"

"Someone else will do it for you," Tywin curtly replied.

It was a stern warning that could not be ignored; Tywin Lannister always made good on his threats and his disobedience would no longer protect Sansa. Escaping King's Landing would result in near immediate capture; they had no allies. And as much as Shae caused him grief, he could not bear to leave her behind. He slid off of the chair.

"When?"

"You have put this off long enough, by the morrow."

Tyrion said nothing as he waddled toward the door, arms across his chest.

"I know maiden's blood when I see it," Tywin called out, again not bothering to look up from his work.

* * *

Writer's Note : Wow, guys, so this story is turning out quite different from the original version. If you read beyond this (as of 9/3/15), the story **_WILL NOT MAKE SENSE_**. I considered starting an entirely new story, but this is really becoming a more elaborate version of the original and is still going in the same general direction. Hang tight while I try to fix everything up so I can start new chapters &amp; content.

Thanks so much for your support as always!


	5. SANSA : Savior

Sansa sat in the solar, alone. Shae helped her dress, brought her a late breakfast, and curtly excused herself. As she walked out, Sansa noticed that her dress was almost sheer in the bright morning light. _Does she even wear anything underneath? She could almost be confused for a prostitute…_

She brushed it off, not wanting to think ill of Shae, even after what happened, but she did wonder if Tyrion would make good on his threat and dismiss her. Sansa felt the awkward tension arise whenever her handmaid and husband would meet; watching their eyes lock in silence made her uneasy. _Is there something going on between them…?_

She decided not dwell on it any longer, and sat by the solar window. She had received an invitation to join Margaery Tyrell in the garden for high tea, but refused. She couldn't understand how Margaery could remain so ecstatic about being engaged to Joffrey. Sansa explained the truth about him to her and her grandmother, Lady Olenna: how he humiliated her by having her stripped and beaten in court, how only Tyrion objected and ended the brutality. Olenna and Margaery seemed to take the information in stride, though. The wedding date was quickly approaching.

Sansa spent the rest of the morning watching the ships in the harbor. Listening to the ocean waves and gulls overhead helped her frenzied mind. If she squinted, she could make out sailors on deck, hauling goods and supplies, readying the sails. Watching the ships set sail was the most painful part for her; she knew she would never be free to set sail on an open sea, feeling the ocean breeze on her face. Staring at the harbor, Sansa felt the droplets fall onto the back of her hands before she realized they were tears.

Mid-afternoon, Shae returned with lunch. Her handmaid appeared a bit ruffled, but nothing more. _I suppose Tyrion is giving her another chance_, Sansa thought.

"Have you been crying, m'lady?" Shae asked, sounding mildly curious, as she placed the tray of hot stew and bread on the table.

"No."

"Oh, well…I brought food for m'lord, too."

"He isn't here right now."

"Oh?"

"He hasn't come back since this morning."

"I'll leave it here anyway, m'lady."

Shae excused herself and left Sansa alone again. She sipped some of the stew broth and nibbled at the bread, but otherwise left the food untouched.

The door to the solar burst open and in strode Joffrey, flanked by Ilyn Payne and Boros Blount. The king grinned from ear to ear when he spied Sansa by herself. Terror rose in her chest, a lump formed in the back of her throat, but she swallowed it back down; she donned the armor of a lady and rose from her seat.

"Your grace," she said, with a curtsy.

"Where is my useless uncle, Stark?"

"I do not know, your grace."

"You don't know?" Joffrey spat, "You have no idea where your own _husband_ is?"

"No, your grace."

"Important matters need to be discussed and Uncle Imp is nowhere to be found. How typical," he continued, eyeing Sansa, "Grandfather wishes to speak with him."

"About w-what?" Sansa choked.

"My dearest Sansa," Joffrey smirked, "Grandfather wants to know if the rumors are true."

"What rumors?"

"The rumor that you still have your maidenhead," he replied, piercing green eyes staring directly into hers; her lower lip quivered, but she remained silent, "So it is true!"

"Y-your grace-"

"That disgusting imp has fucked every whore in King's Landing, but won't touch you!?" Joffrey laughed, and his guards followed suit; Blount chuckling to himself and Payne making a disturbing clucking noise that, without a tongue, could only be laughter.

"He's a good man," Sansa replied, finding strength.

"Good? _Good!?"_ Joffrey hissed, "He's a drunken _fool!_"

"More than you'll ever be."

Joffrey stood, slack jawed at her off-hand comment; he blinked a few times before being able to muster a response.

"You dare insult your _king!?_" he seethed, nostrils flaring, "Payne, Blount, seize her!"

She knew that she would insight Joffrey's wrath and instinct told her to bolt for the door, but she never stood a chance. Ilyn Payne, the man who beheaded her father, snatched her arm in a death grip, and dragged her in front of their king. Blount grabbed her free arm, leaving no room for escape. Joffrey put a hand under her chin, thumb touching her bottom lip. Sansa jerked away, enraging him further, and he yanked her head toward him.

"You're hurting me!" she exclaimed.

"On your knees," Joffrey commanded, as he released her face; Blount and Payne forced her down.

"Give me one good reason," Joffrey began to circle her like a hawk, "One good reason why I shouldn't have you killed right now?"

Sansa's mind spiraled, panic rising. _I'm going to die here, like this…say something…he's going to kill you…say something…no, no, no…say something! Anything!_

"_My claim_!" she shouted, "My claim to Winterfell! That's why your grandfather arranged for Tyrion and I to be married. For my claim to Winterfell."

Silence fell, punctuated by Sansa's heavy breathing. The king stood stoic and unfeeling, pausing to consider her words.

"You're right, _Stark_," Joffrey finally replied, "You're no use to us dead. However, you're also of no use to us if Uncle Imp doesn't put a baby in you. But if that twisted little beast won't fuck you, perhaps another Lannister should?"

Sansa began to thrash out of pure terror. The knights chuckled, watching her flail her delicate limbs, but to their surprise, she managed to wrench an arm free. The pair quickly subdued her again.

The king waved his hand and Blount and Payne ripped her dress off; she shrieked as they continued to tear off her small clothes. All three leered at the nude young girl, and she was brought back to that day in court, when all eyes were on her; one arm went across her budding breasts, the other dropped between her legs.

"Blount, Payne, you are dismissed," Joffrey announced, but the knights paused, "What are you, deaf!? I can handle her from here."

"But your grace-"

"I will be just fine on my own. She won't be going anywhere," his gazed turned back to Sansa, "Now, _leave!_"

Taking a final look at the trembling girl, both Blount and Payne left. When the door shut behind them, Joffrey began to unlace his breeches.

"Please, your grace, please don't do this!" Sansa begged, eyes welling up.

"I am the king, Sansa, and the king does as he pleases. Now, on your knees."

"No, no, _please_-"

"I _said_ on your knees, Sansa," he demanded, "Bow down to your king."

"Please, please, _don't_-"

Sansa screamed as Joffrey's foot connected with her back, forcing her to the floor. She began to crawl on hands and knees in a desperate attempt to escape. She yelped when he grabbed a fistful of her hair, yanking her head back.

"Just remember, you're mine now," he taunted.

Taking her from behind, she felt the tip of his cock at her entrance and her whole body clenched. He panted in her ear as he attempted to thrust himself inside. Sansa closed her eyes and stopped resisting. _He'll never stop_, she thought as he pumped his hips harder, grunting, _he'll never stop…I should just accept it-_

She suddenly felt his weight lifted off of her back and with a thud, Joffrey went sprawling across the floor. Sansa looked up and saw Tyrion, face flushed, beads of sweat on his brow, with his boot on the king's chest and a dagger in his hand. A smile crept across his scarred face.

"Is this why you sent Blount and Payne away?" Tyrion asked, gesturing between his nephew's legs, "Didn't want them to see your useless cock?"

"_This is treason!_" Joffrey screeched, as he hastily tucked away his withering manhood.

"If I ever see you harassing my wife again, I _will_ geld you," Tyrion replied, lining the tip of the blade up right between Joffrey's legs, "Am I making myself clear?"

"_I am the king!_"

"Say it again and my eyes might roll right out of my head."

"I will have you hanged-"

"Get out now."

"NO ONE TELLS THE KING-"

"I said get out _now!_" Tyrion demanded, gripping the blade even tighter.

"This isn't over!" Joffrey snarled, as he slunk away, defeated.

When the door shut, Tyrion bolted it shut and sheathed the dagger.

"Are you alright?" he asked. Sansa sunk to her knees and bawled, dropping her head on his shoulder, clinging tight to his shirt.

"Sansa, I know-I know I'm not…the husband you dreamed of," he grasped for words, "But I promise, to defend you however I can."

"Thank you," she whispered.


	6. TYRION : Broken Promise

**Writer's Note** : Hey everyone! I haven't forgotten about this one...again! In the last year, I've switched careers and helped out with a sick parent, so ff fell by the wayside. I'm still working on updating the previous chapters and writing new ones. Sorry about all the delays, and thanks for everyone's continued support!

* * *

Tyrion brought his arms around Sansa, one hand on her back, the other on her head. Stroking her hair, thoughts racing, he wondered how he would explain why he could no longer keep his promise. He could feel Sansa shake between her sharp gasps; he tried to swallow back the lump forming in his throat.

"Come," he said, helping her to her feet, "Let's get you into fresh clothes."

Tyrion led the trembling girl into the bedroom. He averted his gaze, but he managed to get a glimpse of her face: a ghostly pallor and wild eyes. Their only physical connection, his stunted hand, holding her long, delicate fingers, caused Tyrion to feel even more awkward.

Once inside, he shut the door behind them. Sansa stood in the center of the room, back to her husband, arms wrapped around her breasts. Tyrion coughed.

"Sansa, I'm sorry, but I must ask-"

"He didn't."

"Don't be afraid to-"

"If you hadn't shown up…" she whispered, voice trailing off.

Tyrion glanced at her and became transfixed by the curve of her spine, counting each vertebrae as he drew his gaze downward. She had certainly begun her journey into womanhood: broadening hips, budding breasts, curves of her backside. For all of her blossoming physical maturity, he kept reminding himself that she was still only a child. He berated himself for his own folly, as goosebumps rippled across her flesh, and she drew her arms tighter around her developing frame.

"Oh, um…?" Sansa's voice broke him out of the trance, "Could…could you, please?"

Auburn hair obscured most of her face, but she glanced over her shoulder, face flushing. He abruptly turned on his heel, facing the door.

"I apologize, my lady," he replied, voice cracking. The wardrobe door creaked open, Sansa rustlin through it's contents

"You may turn around, now," she announced, voice still cracking from screaming.

He caught her sliding her arms into a gray dress with dark red embroidery; it reminded him of blood.

"Um…could you help me with this, please?"

She sat on a stool by the wardrobe, the laces of the back of her dress undone. Tyrion had plenty of experience undressing women, but helping them_ into_ clothes? He fumbled crossing the laces, back and forth, giving a gentle tug each time. Struggling as he reached Sansa's shoulders, the girl slid off the stool, and kneeled on the floor for him.

"Done," he said, as he tied a finishing bow at the base of her neck.

"Thank you…"

Sansa rose to her feet, and appeared even more an adult when clothed. She had been groomed from the beginning to be a proper lady, and even at her young age, she excelled. Her posture and mannerisms were mature beyond three-and-ten.

Tyrion clenched his jaw, cycling through endless outcomes in his mind, all bearing the same fruit. The evidence could be manipulated easily enough: he could cut himself and smear the blood on their clean sheets. But a pregnancy could not be feigned for very long. Though lacking in physical stature and strength, Tyrion could manipulate, cajole, and bribe his way out of unfavorable situations before, but he couldn't intellectualize his way out of this one. The deed had to be done.

"I know what you are about to say," Sansa interrupted the dwarf before he could even begin.

"What am I about to say, then?"

"I know…" a dark shadow fell over the girl's face, "Joffrey- he said that…"

"What did he say?" Tyrion asked, allowing a few moments of pause for Sansa to collect herself.

"He said-" she continued, choking back sobs, "That if you wouldn't put a baby inside of me, then someone else would."

She fell to her knees, whole body shuddering again. Tyrion walked over to her, and gently took her hands in his; she pulled away.

"_You_ don't understand! _Nobody_ understands! _It wasn't supposed to be this way!_"

They both fell silent, and she covered her face with her hands. Tyrion took his chance.

"You are right, I don't understand. I don't understand what it's like to be taken prisoner by those who have massacred my family. I don't understand what it's like to be tortured by a psychopath. And I don't understand what it must have felt like when you realized that you were being forced into an arranged marriage with me."

Another long pause.

"I'm sorry, my…Tyrion."

"Don't apologize, none of this is your fault," he replied, "I…I just don't know what to. I can prolong-"

"Why?" she stared intently at her hands, "Why prolong something that must be done?"

"I could…find someone more suitable."

A faint trace of bitterness could be heard in his voice. His stump of a nose began to itch, but Tyrion refused to raise a hand to his face.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize," the dwarf repeated, "It's not your fault. None of this is…"

Awkward silence fell again. Sansa stood still, biting her lower lip; Tyrion turned away.

"My father knows," he said abruptly.

"K-knows what?"

"That we haven't consummated our marriage," Tyrion replied, heaving a sigh. _Remember: she's but a child_, he had to remind himself.

"B-but how!?" Sansa stammered, "How could he _know_?"

He poured himself wine from auxiliary carafe he kept on the nightstand, "My father wants proof of our intimacy by the morrow, and if not…there will be consequences."

"He-_he wants to_ _watch_!?" the poor girl asked, horrified.

Tyrion choked, spraying wine all over the floor. Doubling over, he altered between coughing and laughing, face reddening.

"_No_! Of course not," he replied, wiping tears from his eyes, trying to quickly pull himself back together, "Your septa left out some details about bedding."

"You mean maiden's blood, don't you?"

He nodded, and poured fresh wine. A heaviness returned to the room as he stared at the blood red liquid, knocking it back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He poured more and brought the cup to his lips.

"Tyrion…"

The sound of his own name almost caused him to choke again, and his mismatched eyes landed on Sansa.

"Tyrion," she repeated, "I am ready to do my duty as your wife."

He placed the wine back down, "I cannot ask this of you."

"You are not: I'm willingly giving it. If you were not here today, I might not…" she paused for a moment, and continued, "I understand the consequences for you, if this doesn't happen."

He paused, as recollections from half a lifetime ago floated into his consciousness, seemingly from nowhere. An image of a young girl, sprawled out, naked and smiling, on the straw bed of an inn. Tyrion swallowed back a lump in his throat, along with his memories.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes," she replied in earnest, "Putting it off serves no one."

"You are right, it cannot," he echoed, "I am already breaking my promise to you."

"A promise I knew you wouldn't be able to keep…"

"Again, you are correct."

Sansa sat on the edge of the bed and waited. Although it had been only weeks since their arranged marriage, something about the girl had changed; she seemed resigned to, almost accepting of, the situation that had been forced upon her. Tyrion gazed at the last remaining true born Stark, and joined in her resignation of their shared fate.


	7. JOFFREY : His Is The Fury

Joffrey fumed as he stormed out of his uncle's chambers. He couldn't admit that he had lost this one and whipped himself into more of a frenzy with each stride, blood roiling with rage. Had he not been so focused on Sansa's tight cunt, he would have heard Tyrion enter; Joffrey didn't realize how difficult forcing himself inside of her would be. He would never admit to being a virgin, but the fumbling and awkwardness betrayed him. Joffrey was even more ashamed at how he withered at the sight of the raised blade in his uncle's hand. Terror gripped him, and he hated himself for showing weakness, especially in front of Tyrion. Joffrey seethed, thinking of how his uncle smirked at his limp cock.

He strode past a handmaid, walking in the opposite direction. She held a tray of food, and gave a sloppy curtsy and a half-hearted "m'lord." Joffrey rounded on the young woman.

"_I AM THE KING!_" Joffrey screeched, "_Address me properly, or I'll cut your head off, you filthy whore!_"

She gave him an intense glare for split second, but softened and cleared her throat, "Your grace."

"More like it, stupid wench," he hissed under his breath, as he kept walking.

Joffrey passed his Kingsguard, and seeing the boy king's rage, stood in silence. Once in his solar, he slammed the doors so hard, the hinges on both were bent, but he didn't even notice as he stomped out onto the balcony. He inhaled sharply, salty sea air filling his nostrils, the expanse of King's Landing and harbor below. He reached for the dagger at his waist, and unsheathed it. The boy gazed at the Valariyan steel blade. It had belonged to the recently deceased king and his father, Robert Baratheon.

The new king could see his reflection in the blade, and wondered for a moment if his father would be proud of him. Joffrey knew he wasn't quite what his father wanted as an heir; he didn't even _look_ like his father. He was a Lannister through and through: tall, slim, with golden blonde hair. Robert seemed disappointed that none of his children took after him, but never questioned their parentage, and neither did his son. The boy knew Lannister genes were strong; even Uncle Tyrion looked a Lannister, even with his disgusting, twisted body. Joffrey glanced down at his image, young and handsome, one final time before sheathing the blade. He felt grateful to not look like Tyrion.

"Your grace?"

His mother, Cersei Lannister, stood in the threshold of the solar, and dared not enter without permission from the king.

"Mother," Joffrey called, as he ushered her in.

"I heard the…commotion," she said, as she curtseyed in respect.

Joffrey enjoyed watching his mother give him courtesy, and it helped quell some of his rage. She had never even given his father this amount of respect, and it made Joffrey feel powerful. _Not even mother dares to disrespect me_.

"No need to worry, mother," he lied, "The demon monkey insulted me, but I'll let him keep his tongue, for now."

"Tyrion," mother spat, "What has the vile creature done now?"

"More like what he hasn't done, mother. Grandfather confirmed the rumors: Uncle Imp's marriage hasn't been consummated," Joffrey continued, "We will lose our claim in the North if Uncle doesn't do his duty."

"Maybe Tyrion has a shred of humanity in that stunted body of his," the Queen Regent paused, and both began laughing.

"An excellent jape, mother," Joffrey concluded, wiping a tear away from his eye.

"Yes, Tyrion truly is a monster, but he needs to do his duty by this family. He should consider himself blessed that father didn't drown him as an infant. He will pay for his misgivings."

"Yes, he will."

"But we need to tolerate his insolence for a bit longer, until he gets the Stark girl with child."

"If he won't, I'll do it for him," Joffrey sneered.

"Joff-"

"Mother," he replied, cutting her off, "_I _am the King. I can do as I please."

"If you get her pregnant, everyone will know. Everyone is expecting a hideous child, like Tyrion. If the baby comes out perfect, like you," she continued, placing a hand on his cheek, "Everyone will know that the child isn't his. A bastard cannot inherit Winterfell."

"I can legitimize the bastard," Joffrey quickly countered, "And no one can say anything: _I am the King_."

Cersei froze, not knowing how to respond. When she finally went to open her mouth, the King raised his hand to silence her.

"Not to worry, mother. It'll all be taken care of," Joffrey gave her a sinister grin, "You may take your leave. I am quite tired."

She turned for the door, "Please, consult your grandfather before taking any liberties."

"_I am the King_, _mother_," the boy replied through a clenched jaw, "I need not consult anyone in my personal affairs."

"Yes, your grace," Cersei said after a moment of silence, and took her leave.

Joffrey shook his head, annoyed with how his mother could be so naive. He turned back to the balcony, a cool wind blowing. The fury began to well up again, tightening his chest, tensing the muscles. No one could tell the King what to do. _No one_. Gazing back over the city once more, he gripped the balustrade tight. _All of this is mine_, he thought to himself, _just wait and see, Uncle Tyrion. I will have my revenge. _With a deep exhale, a calmness suddenly rushed over the boy in a way he had not felt in ages.


	8. SANSA : What Do I Share?

Tyrion stared at her with an odd intensity. Sansa searched his mismatched eyes for the lust or rage that the dwarf was so famous for, but it's not what she saw. She broke their gaze, and looked at the back of her hands, trying to push the inevitable out of her mind, for now.

"Well," Tyrion said, breaking the awkward silence, trying to lighten the mood, "We should drink!"

He grabbed the wine bottle, but when he realized there were only a few drops left, he put it back down. He opened a drawer in the bottom of the wardrobe, and dug around its contents.

"Don't worry, I have more," he explained, as he pulled a smaller, dark green bottle out from underneath his clothes, "I've been saving this one: Strongwine from Dorne."

"What have you been saving it for?" Sansa asked; her husband paused.

"Nothing in particular, my dear," Tyrion explained his moment of hesitation away, and quickly pressed a cup of the dark red liquid into her hands. He knocked back his in a few gulps, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and he lifted his silent gaze back to her, "You don't have to drink, if you don't want to."

The dark wine smelled potent, and the color reminded her of blood. The image of her father's head rolling across the steps of Baelor's Sept, eyes wide open, floated to her consciousness. Her eyes began to well, and Sansa drank the the sweet wine before she could shed a single tear. This time, she found the burn down her throat and into her stomach almost pleasant, and the sudden rush to her head welcome.

The sudden knock on the solar door startled both of them. Tyrion held one hand out to her, the other on the hilt of his dagger. Her hands trembled, liquid sloshing around, as she placed her cup down on the bedside table.

"Stay," he commanded, eyes fixed on the direction of the rapping, as he walked out of the bedroom. Sansa did as she was told.

"What took you so long?! This is heavy!" Shae complained, as the sound of clattering silverware drowned out her voice.

"You can come out now," Tyrion called to her over the noise, "Bring the wine with you."

Sansa stood in the threshold as Shae set up the dinner table: roasted honeyed chicken, vegetables, and black bread. The sun, already setting, cast long shadows across the solar. Sansa almost couldn't believe that night had already fallen; she felt as though the hours sped up, leaving her in this moment. She placed the bottle on the table.

"I brought lemon cakes, m'lady," Shae said, as she lit candles around the room, "I heard they're your favorite."

"They are," Sansa replied, spying the neat slices of cake on the tray.

"You have had quite a day, Sansa," Tyrion cut in, never taking his eyes off of Shae, "Come, sit down," he pulled out a chair.

"Yes," the handmaid interrupted, her intense gaze meeting Tyrion's, "I'm sure you will have quite the night too, m'lady."

"Your work here is done, you may take your leave," Tyrion countered, through gritted teeth.

"Of course, m'lord, m'lady," Shae answered, still locked on the dwarf as she gave a stiff curtsey, and left. Tyrion heaved a sigh once the door closed, and turned his attention back to Sansa.

"Please, sit."

The girl obeyed, surveying the food in front of her, "I'm not very hungry, my- Tyrion."

Her husband smiled at the sound of his name. Tyrion Lannister had not been a handsome man to start, with his short, stunted body, large head, and brutish brow, but the battle scars made his appearance that much worse. Most of his nose had been hacked off, leaving only a gnarled stump and a massive scar running across his face. _He is grotesque…_ she thought, but the image of Joffrey, nearly salivating, standing over her as she lay naked and sprawled out on the floor.

"You need to eat…Is it nerves?" he asked, expression darkening.

"I-I suppose so…" the girl stammered.

"I understand why you do not want to go through with it. I am confronted with my image every day in the looking glass, I know what you see."

"It is my duty as your wife to give you an heir, and considering the circumstances…we mustn't delay."

Sansa suddenly reached for the bottle, and filled two fresh cups nearly to the brim; she wasn't sure how much she should fill each one, but figured more would be better. She passed one to Tyrion and kept the other for herself. Maybe the wine was seeping into the deeper corners of her mind, but feeling emboldened, she lifted her glass.

"To the Dornish," she declared, and she took a huge gulp. Some of it trickled out of the corner of her mouth, but she wiped it away with the back of her hand, forgetting all of her manners. The wine helped strengthen her resolve.

"To the Dornish," Tyrion echoed, with an odd smirk on his face, "You know, this behavior is…unexpected."

Sansa felt herself flush. She wasn't used to drinking, and the wine was stronger than she had anticipated. Everything became a bit foggy, and her senses dulled a bit, but she felt emboldened. Drunkenness allowed her to put her guard down, and not worry about constantly maintaining an image of a proper lady. Tyrion didn't seem to mind, anyhow.

"Well, I'm not who I used to be," she said, taking another drink.

"You might want to slow down a bit."

"Have you ever slowed down, Tyrion Lannister?" Sansa asked, leaning across the table to steady herself.

"Are you cocking a brow at me!?" he asked, incredulous, "Well, cheers to that!" he raised his glass and she followed in suit.

After polishing off two cups of wine, the food began to appeal to Sansa. She eyed the lemon cake and grabbed a piece with her hands, very unladylike, but still had enough wherewithal to use a fork. When she finished the first piece, she went for another. She noticed Tyrion staring at her, and she stared back, blinking a few times. Everything became fuzzy, but she managed to grab the bottle with an unsteady hand, and topped herself and Tyrion off. She felt an absurd pride in how both cups were equal, as if she had won some kind of game. Sansa lifted the glass to her lips, allowing the rest of the wine to roil in the pit of her stomach. She knew what must happen, but she became a bit softer now. Her mind now turned away from Joffrey, her father, her family, her former life, and focused on Tyrion. _He didn't want this, either…_

"You know," she began, "Everyone warned me that you are a beast, but…you're not so bad."

"I know I appear a monster, Sansa, but I assure you, not everything is as it seems."

Tyrion sipped the last of his wine. Sansa pushed her chair away to stand, but feeling light headed, she suddenly found herself on hands and knees. Tyrion was suddenly beside her, hand reaching out to pull her up. She gazed into his mismatched eyes, and she felt a fluttering in her stomach. She placed her hand in his.

"Dornish wine can make anyone stumble," he said, helping her to her feet, "Maybe you should go to sleep, Sansa."

"No-I-I'm fine," the girl stuttered. She knew Tyrion would return to the couch in the solar, where he had been sleeping since they were wed.

"Sweetling, you are in no position to-"

"Share my bed."

"I can't-"

"But your father said-"

"I know what my father said," her husband replied, face reddening, "I can't-"

"Share my bed."

"You don't know what you're saying," he continued, "You're drunk."

"We have to," Sansa explained, tears welling in her eyes again.

"Why? Why are you defending me? What you you want? Tell me," he had both of her arms in a vice grip, the sound of desperation in his voice.

"I just want everything to be ok…" she whispered, dropping her chin to her chest and sobbing. Tyron's thick fingers suddenly interlaced with her delicate ones.

"Listen to me," he said, squeezing her hands, "You were forced into a marriage you did not want-"

"I only want to do it with you."

Sansa's words hung in the air like a heavy heat on a summer day. Tyrion stood for a few moments, mouth open like a fool, but he suddenly began to laugh.

"Sweetling, you need not tell lies on my behalf."

"I mean it," her voice sounded harsh, and her stare rivaled his in intensity, "My family is dead and you are the only one who has stood by me again and again…and now I want to do the same for you."

Tyrion appeared even more grotesque than usual, with shadows dancing across his noseless face in the dim candlelight, but his appearance didn't concern. Head still swarming with liquor, she leaned in and pressed her lips against his; she could smell the wine on his breath, sickly sweet. Her in inexperience made her awkward and sloppy, but he returned the kiss, bringing a gentle hand to the back of her neck. Closing her eyes, it was like kissing any other man. When they broke apart, Sansa was breathing heavy; she could feel her heart pounding in her chest.

"If this is going to happen…we should get in bed," Tyrion said, and Sansa replied with a nod, "Very well, then."

Tyrion gently took her hand, and led her back into their bedchamber. She stood facing the bed, what would soon be their marital bed. The girl noticed the crisp, clean, white sheets like never before; they would soon be stained with her maiden's blood. She wondered for a moment if Tywin Lannister would smile when he saw it, knowing the Lannisters would soon make good on their claim to the Winterfell. She swallowed hard.

"Undress me," she stated, stepping out of her shoes.

"I just got you into these clothes, and now you want me to take you back out of them?" Tyrion joked; she knew he was grinning from the sound of his voice.

"Undress me," she repeated.

"Yes, my lady," he replied, sounding slightly startled by her command. She knelt to allow him to untie the laces of her bodice. As she felt the fabric loosen, she began chewing her lip. It was a habit she had picked up from Robb, and she forced the image of his head on a spike out of her mind.

"My name is Sansa," she said, as the dress fell away, only her small clothes covered her now. The room was cool, and goosebumps rippled across her bare flesh. She pulled her panties below her hips, allowing them to drop to the floor, and climbed onto the huge featherbed. She could hear Tyrion pulling off his boots, and hoisting himself up behind her. He glanced at her, but quickly turned away. Sansa suddenly felt foolish and brought a hand to her breasts and the other between her legs. _No turning back, now…_

"What would you have me do next…Sansa?" he continued, clearing his throat, "I will admit: I am more accustomed to giving commands instead of receiving them."

The girl swallowed hard, still covering herself, "Kiss me."

He obeyed, this time managing to slide his tongue into her mouth. To her surprise, Sansa enjoyed it, closing her eyes, slipping her tongue over his. Tyrion took a hand through her hair, the other instinctively seeking a bare breast. When his hand found hers, he pulled away.

"You do not have to go through with this," he said, "You are not obligated to-"

She still felt shy, but took her hands away from her body anyway, bringing them to his shoulders, "Keep going."

Tyrion leaned over and blew out their bedside candle, "So you need not look upon me…a small way to repay some of your kindness."

She said nothing, as he dropped his head, taking a hard nipple between his lips.


	9. TYRION : On Your Side

Even on the cusp of womanhood, Sansa was near perfection, with delicate facial features, beautiful auburn hair, and lovely, developing curves. She possessed none of the awkward appearance of other girls her age. As he groped her other breast, he heard a voice in the back of his mind, reminding him: _It's her first time, be good to her…_

Resting his forehead below her breasts, he snaked his hand between her legs. The girl clenched tight, entire body becoming rigid. He glanced up and saw her nervously chewing on her bottom lip, gaze locked on the ceiling. After a few quick strokes, her body began to respond. She took deep, shuddering breaths, trembling at the sensation of his touch. Even when drunk, Tyrion's fingers were deft.

"Who are you imagining in my place, Sansa? Who do you fantasize about?" he asked, working quicker.

"No," her voice was barely audible, as she tried to force back a sigh of pleasure.

"Who then?" the dwarf asked, "Who do you desire?" Sansa lay, sprawled out and breathless, and motioned for him to come closer, "Go on, sweetling, I can be anyone for you in the dark," he said, leaning in.

"Tyrion," his wife whispered.

"Tell me, and-"

"You, Tyrion," she explained quietly;

"Need I remind you that you do not have to tell lies on my behalf," he said softly, "I can pretend to be-"

"I am not a little girl anymore, and I don't need to pretend you are anyone other than exactly who you are."

Tyrion, left speechless, just stared at the girl. _The last time a woman spoke to me like this…_ he tried to swallow back the lump forming in his throat, but it wouldn't budge. The image of a lovely, dark haired, low-born girl would crept into his mind like a sickness. He inadvertently shook his head, trying to remove such thoughts, and unlaced his breeches. His cock was already stiff, tip glistening wet. _She is still just a girl, even if she claims otherwise. She hasn't a clue of what she's saying…_he stared at her, sprawled out and naked, and licked his lips.

He stared at the girl, his wife, sprawled out and naked on his bed- their bed. He contemplated simply walking out of the room, without a word. He thought about facing his father in the morning, without consummating the political marriage he and Sansa had been forced into. He also thought about taking his dagger and plunging it into his lord father's chest. Absurdly enough, the thought of Tywin Lannister slowly choking to death on his own blood, only aroused Tyrion more.

"This is going to hurt, sweetling," he warned, and brought her thighs apart without resistance.

He positioned himself, as he had with countless women before. She screamed at first, her body stretching to accommodate him. A manic sickness overtook him, as he closed his eyes and thrusted himself deeper and harder, losing any sense of composure he clung to; in those few moments, he lost himself to the lustful beast everyone imagined him to be. The poor girl cried out as he ripped apart her maidenhead, but didn't shed a single tear.

"It's almost over," he murmured, "Almost over…"

Sansa's cries turned into soft whimpers with full penetration. With a final harsh thrust, causing the poor girl's body to jolt, he finished.

Tyrion had forgotten how good it felt to deflower a maiden. The rush that came with tearing away a girl's virginity, making her a woman. The wave of shamefulness nearly overcame him, and he bowed his head, rolling off of her. He tucked his limp cock away without cleaning off the blood.

"Your lord father will be pleased," Sansa said, breaking the heavy silence that engulfed the pair.

"Yes, he will," Tyrion replied, knowing that the mingling fluids were seeping into the sheets. He glanced at his wife, her eyes unmoving, fixed on a spot on the ceiling. _An impossible mess to clean_, he thought bitterly, turning to slide off of the bed. A hand shot out of the darkness, grabbing his arm.

"Where are you going?" Sansa asked.

"The deed is done."

"Please stay."

"I…," he paused, confused, "I will stay, as long as you wish me to."

Tyrion pulled himself back up next to her, and she threw her arms around him.

"You're all I have now," she explained, "Please, don't leave…"

"I won't," he replied, startled by her sudden clinginess; he chalked it up to the alcohol, and brought an arm around her to calm the poor girl down.

"Promise?" she asked, blue eyes locked on him, piercing through the darkness, "A promise you'll keep?"

"Yes, a promise I'll keep," he echoed, looking away. Sansa drew herself even closer, and within minutes, she began dozing off. Tyrion allowed himself to settle beside his wife, pushing a few auburn locks away from her face. _I am no knight_, he thought to himself, _but I'll do everything in my power to keep you safe_, and closed his eyes.

* * *

Incessant pounding on the door yanked Tyrion out of a dreamless sleep. He rolled out of bed, still in a haze, and nearly doubled over when his feet hit the floor. Stumbling to the door, he remembered the blade, snatching it off of the nightstand, not that he'd be able to do much with it: his hangover was wicked, and he could barely see straight. He gripped the blade all the same and opened the door. Two young women stood in the threshold, grinning from ear to ear, making him uneasy.

"I'm sorry, m'lord," the girl on the right began, "But Lord Tywin wants-"

"Yes, I know all about what Lord Tywin _wants_," Tyrion spat, bitterness in his voice, "Well, go on then, take what you must and leave."

The servant girls rushed past him, and into the bedchamber. Once Tyrion staggered back in, the pair woke Sansa. She stood, still bleary eyed, holding a blanket to cover herself. The two girls could barely conceal their glee as they stripped the bloodied sheet off of the bed. Tyrion could hear their giggles echoing down the hall as they rushed out.

"I am sorry, Sansa, for allowing my family to put you through even more humiliation," he apologized.

"I don't feel very well, my lord," she whispered.

Sansa swayed and collapsed to her knees. Tyrion rushed over to her, pulling back her thick, auburn hair. He knew what was coming, and just as he expected, Sansa spilled the contents of her stomach onto the floor. He watched as the bile began to seep into the cracks, as the girl kept on retching.

"I'm sorry," she coughed, wiping her mouth, as he helped her find her feet.

"This is my fault, do not blame yourself," Tyrion helped her back onto the bed, "Lay on your side, dear."

"Why?"

"In case you get sick again, you won't choke on your vomit."

The girl looked deathly pale and dehydrated, and Tyrion thought for a moment to call for the maester, but he knew that the old fool, Pycelle, would be of no help. He spied a jug of water on the night table, rarely used, but it was full. Taking an empty wine cup, he poured her a glass and asked her to drink.

"No more wine," she groaned, burying her face in the pillow; he smiled.

"It's just water, dear," he said, placing the cup within her reach. There was another sharp rap at the door, and once again, he snatched up the dagger, "I'll be right back."

As he strode toward the door, he half expected his lord father to be standing there, just as he had on the day his first wife was sent away. Tyrion remembered how he had to watch as each member of his father's guard raped his first wife. and how all of the silver coins she had been given in return overflowed out of her hands, rolling onto the floor. Tywin commanded that Tyrion go last, and when he finished, to give her a gold dragon. _Because a Lannister is worth more…_

"What do you want?" Tyrion snarled, not giving a single courtesy to whomever stood on the other side of the door; the shame from his past came back to haunt him, and his blood roiled at the thought of his father's satisfied smirk once he saw the bed sheet.

"Lord Tywin requires your presence at once, my lord," a man's voice replied, and Tyrion knew the man belonged to his father's guard.

"Tell him I'm busy," the dwarf spat.

"_Lord Tywin requires your presence at once, my lord_," he repeated. He wouldn't leave until Tyrion complied

"Tell _Lord Tywin,_ I need time to properly dress, I've had a busy night,_" _Tyrion shot back, as he went back into the bedchamber; Sansa hadn't moved.

"Sansa, I must speak with my lord father. I'll be back as soon as I can for you," he explained as he changed into fresh clothes, "I'm locking the door on my way out, but bolt it once I leave. Do not open it for anyone, not even for Sh- the handmaid. Do you understand?"

"Yes, my lord," she said, with a weak smile. He took her hand, kissed the tips of her fingers, and left, making sure to lock the door. The guardsman had stayed, just as Tyrion expected, and the man escorted him down the stairs, toward Lord Tywin's chambers.

"You're still here?" Tyrion asked, "I'm quite capable of making the walk to the Tower of the Hand alone."

"Oh, Little Lord," the guard sniggered, "I wouldn't miss your meeting with Lord Tywin for the world."

Tyrion did not like the smirk plastered across the man's face.

Entering the Hand of the King's chambers, Tyrion could see the sheet, spread across his father's writing table. The stain of blood, coagulated and dark, couldn't be overlooked, and as the dwarf walked in, the rest of the Tywin's guard had to stifle their laughter. Bile shot up into his throat, but he swallowed it back down, along with the shame.

"Lord Tywin," Tyrion's escort announced, "Your son, Lord Tyrion."

"You are dismissed," Tywin replied, waving his hand, "All of you, go."

As the guard left, a few snorts of laughter could be heard in the hall. Tyrion was already in a foul mood: hungover, the girls stealing the sheet, and now these idiots. Tywin only guaranteed to stoke his rage.

"Are you satisfied, father? I deflowered Sansa Stark."

"Sansa _Lannister_," Tywin corrected, "You did your duty to your family."

"Say what you must, and let me be on my way."

"You look hungover, Tyrion," his father countered, gazing back at the sheet, "But you were somehow able to perform."

"Yet another jape at my expense? How droll of you, father," Tyrion felt the heat creep up his neck, but said nothing.

"A fact. I had anticipated you disobeying my orders," Tywin continued, "And forcing me into having your union with Sansa happen by whatever means necessary. I will admit, I am mildly surprised, but then again, you wouldn't want a repeat of last time."

"Do _not _-"

"She was a whore."

Tyrion fell silent for a moment, and swallowed his pride. Nothing said at this moment would matter, but he decided to speak anyway, "I loved her all the same."

"You were a fool," Tywin spat, "You_ will _do your duty and serve this family. You _will_ put a child in your wife and secure our position in the North. You are dismissed."

"Why did you summon me here? Just to humiliate me in front of your guards? Is that it?"

"I summoned you here because you are my son," Tywin's harsh gaze bore into him, "Keep serving the family, the way you should, and you will be properly rewarded. Now, go."

Without a word, Tyrion turned on his heel and left. He didn't understand what his father meant by "reward. He did find it amusing, how everyone would balk at an imp becoming Lord of Winterfell _and _Casterly Rock. He thought about bringing Sansa to Winterfell and leaving Shae at the Rock. Tyrion quickly buried those ridiculous hopes, he knew that he could only fantasize of such a perfect ending for someone like himself.


End file.
